


Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang

by ShowMeAHero



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Family, Family Feels, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 00:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12829359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: Clark Kent is a professor at the same university as Bruce Wayne. Not that it matters, because Bruce doesn't really speak with his co-workers - they're there to work with, not befriend. That is, until Clark and Bruce are assigned to teach a class together in the fall, and start spending more and more time together, and Bruce starts to realize, maybe, he just might need a friend - and maybe, he just might need something else, something Clark-specific.





	Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang

**Author's Note:**

> I am absolutely insatiable for this pairing, it seems.
> 
> Title pulled from "[Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZzBZQf_7Tk)" by Silver, because I just listened to the _Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2_ on loop as I wrote this, and this song is awesome for this.

Bruce was always fairly punctual when it came to the core faculty meetings, which meant he got to pick the seat he wanted, where nobody would sit near him or bother him or even consider speaking to him, ever.

Unfortunately, Professor Clark Kent was also insanely punctual, and always seemed to beat Bruce there. He was lingering by a plate of cookies in the back, biting a sugar cookie in half, when Bruce breezed in. Clark offered him a wave, but Bruce ignored him, heading straight for his usual seat. He stared ahead, pretending not to notice Clark in his peripheral vision, coming over and taking the seat next to him.

“Hey,” Clark said. He extended a sugar cookie. “Cookie?”

“No,” Bruce growled. Clark shrugged, leaning back in his chair and wrapping the cookie in a napkin. He placed it in his pocket while Bruce watched incredulously. “What did you just do?”

“I’m going to bring it home,” Clark said. He glanced up at him. “Why? Did you change your mind?”

“God, no,” Bruce said, looking away again. Goddamn, there was a  _ reason  _ he preferred to be left alone at these things. Clark was too friendly and buddy-buddy and just all-around  _ strange.  _ Bruce stared at the podium ahead of them, where the dean was supposed to stand soon. Clark started to chattering to Professor Allen on his other side while Bruce tried valiantly to ignore their conversation, despite the fact that they seemed to be purposefully dumb.

“Hello, Professor Wayne,” said a familiar voice above him. Bruce glanced up to see Diana Prince, the president of the school, standing beside his chair. He stood to shake her hand. “Always a pleasure when you decide to show up.”

“Well, when you tell me it’s mandatory,” Bruce said. Diana smiled, then leaned around him to shake Clark’s hand.

“Hello, Clark,” Diana said, grinning at him. Clark clasped her hand and grinned right back, all Southern charm and that air of confidence and charisma that just seemed to be pure Clark.

“Hi, Diana,” Clark said, stepping up beside Bruce. “Got any good news for us today?”

“Oh, plenty,” Diana told him. “I’ve got news for you two in particular. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“Any hints?” Clark asked, but Diana shook her head.

“Trust me, it’s better if you don’t find out too early,” Diana said. She offered them a wave. “You enjoy those sugar cookies. I made them myself.”

Bruce turned to glare at Clark, who just reached into his pocket and held out the napkin-wrapped cookie. Bruce sat back down, ignoring him, so Clark offered the cookie to Barry, who eagerly accepted.

“If I can have your attention,” said Dean J’onzz, standing up at the podium while Diana sat in the chair beside him. “Let’s start with the minutes from our last meeting before we get into this.”

The meeting was about as boring as always. Clark diligently took notes beside him, though when Bruce glanced down at his notebook, they were written entirely in Clark’s very specific and indecipherable shorthand. They were also framed in doodles and other tiny drawings. Bruce saw a fairly well-done little portrait of the side of his face, which was when he turned away and started pretending to listen again.

“And for changes in course assignments, I have one other slight difference,” J’onn said. Diana winked at Bruce and Clark. Clark offered a little wave back. Bruce just kept staring. “Professor Wayne, Professor Clark, you’re going to be partnering up on our ethics session this semester.”

“What?” Bruce asked, before he could stop himself. He glanced at Clark, who seemed similarly surprised, but perhaps less angry. “We’re not even in the same field.”

“This is a small school, Professor Wayne,” J’onn said. “Having two separate ethics classes for undergraduate students just did not make sense financially this semester. I’m sorry, you’ll have to work together on this.”

The meeting continued on, but Clark had already turned to fully face Bruce, flipping to a new page in his notebook.

“We’ll have to start developing our syllabus right away,” Clark said, starting to scribble in that mess he called shorthand. “We want to get that syllabus out over the summer so students can start to prepare.”

“We should just give it to them on their first day and give ourselves more time,” Bruce said. “Keeps them on guard.”

“Wayne, they’re undergrads, not soldiers,” Clark said. He opened his phone and flipped through the calendar. “How about the end of July?”

“How about we finish it when we finish it,” Bruce said. Clark frowned slightly at him, then just wrote  _ July 31st  _ in his notebook anyways. “I already have a TA.”

“So do I,” Clark said. “We can just use both. Jimmy won’t mind.”

Bruce glanced at him. Clark stared right back.

“Two TAs is fine,” Clark said. Bruce turned away.

“I’m free on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Bruce said. “In the afternoon. Starting at twelve-thirty, ending at five.”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays it is,” Clark said, scribbling it down. He crossed his last T, then smiled up at Bruce. “I think we could put together a really nice class.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He realized the meeting was over and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Clark said, waving at him before turning back to talk to Barry Allen, probably about something aggravating, so Bruce head out the door as quickly as he could, giving Diana a goodbye nod as he slipped out into the parking lot.

It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ like  _ his co-workers. He didn’t mind them. He didn’t mind Clark Kent, either. It was just- He didn’t want to be close with them. They were his  _ co-workers.  _ Not his family, not his friends.

“Not that you have any of those to speak of,” Alfred had said, when Bruce had expressed this to him. Bruce had glared at him at the time, but Bruce thought now - well, maybe Alfred was right. Maybe he could afford to make one of his co-workers into something more. An acquaintance, perhaps. And Clark wasn’t so bad: kind, welcome, intelligent. Easy on the eyes, for one thing. Bruce pushed his gas pedal to the floor and drove away as fast as he could.

He thought better of it all the next day, when he arrived at his office to find Clark already standing there, holding out a coffee to him as soon as they made eye contact.

“You’re right on time,” Clark said, as Bruce let them into his office. “I left your coffee black, I wasn’t sure what you’d- Oh,” Clark cut himself off, as Bruce took a long pull from the cup. “Black’s fine, I guess?”

“Black’s fine,” Bruce said, before saying, “Thanks,” like it was dragged out of him. Clark smiled at him, setting his own coffee down on Bruce’s desk and pulling off his messenger bag to dig through. He unearthed his laptop and several binders of notes, which he stacked neatly beside the chair he was sitting in. He looked up at Bruce, pleased, and Bruce just stared back. Clark only flagged slightly as he opened his laptop.

“We have to decide what we want our objective to be, find our materials, and just work from there,” Clark said, fingers already flying across his keyboard. “I have some notes, I’ll just share them with you. Do you have Scrivener?”

Bruce blinked at him, then swirled around in his chair, turning on his array of desktops. “I do,” he said, opening the app up and accepting Clark’s file share. He really was on top of his shit.

“Alright, I sent you a list of possible objectives I came up with last night,” Clark said, all business, no nonsense, except for the smile on his face as he sipped from his cup. Bruce stared at him for a beat longer, then returned his attention to the file. “Feel free to add and remove as you’d like. They’re just ideas.”

The afternoon passed in much the same way, with the two of them lobbing objective ideas back and forth, tweaking phrases and adding in new ideas periodically, until Bruce looked at his watch and realized it was already 6:30.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asked, when Bruce didn’t respond to his question. Clark glanced at his own watch. “Oh, geez. Sorry about that.”

“No, no, I didn’t even realize,” Bruce said, wiping a hand down his face. He turned back and realized the half-cup of coffee he had left had gone cold. He picked it up and drank the last of it in one breath, then looked at Clark, who was staring back at him, incredulous.

“Uh,” Bruce said. Clark blinked. “Good session.”

“Yeah,” Clark agreed, unfreezing to start packing his things away. “I’ll come back Thursday?”

“Sounds good,” Bruce said, turning to start shutting down his computers. They packed in relative quiet, before Clark slid his messenger bag across his chest and stood. He held a hand out to Bruce, and Bruce stood, clasping it in his own.

“Pleasure, Wayne,” Clark said, grinning.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Bruce replied. Clark squeezed his hand and released him, leaving in a flurry of messenger bag and dark hair, mussed by his fingers through hours of work. Bruce slumped back in his chair, looking over the sea of notes on his desk, and exhaled softly.

“How was your first day working with Professor Kent?” Dick asked, the second Bruce stepped into the dining room. Jason didn’t look up from his plate as he continued to eat.

“Sorry we didn’t wait longer,” Tim said. Bruce waved him off.

“No, I was late, it’s my fault,” Bruce said, dropping his bag by the door and going to sit in his usual seat at the head of the table. “My first day with Kent was fine. Got a lot done.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dick said, digging back into his food. Alfred came and put Bruce’s warmed food in front of him.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce said, taking up his fork. He looked at his boys. “So. How was everyone else’s day?”

“Fine,” Dick said, pushing his corn around his plate. Tim smiled.

“I lost a tooth,” Tim declared proudly. Tim, age nine, was still open enough to consider Bruce his parent and his friend. Jason, age fourteen, was about as jaded and emotional as a teenager could manage without their heart stopping. Dick, age seventeen, was just trying his best, at this point, to do well in school and extracurriculars and make it into college without Bruce’s help.

“Good work,” Bruce said. Dick nudged his younger brother.

“Tell him how you lost it,” Dick said, and Tim looked down at his plate.

“What’d you do?” Bruce asked, and Tim shrugged.

“Dipshit jumped out of a tree,” Jason chimed in, and Tim threw a bread roll at him. Jason caught it in one hand and lobbed it back.

“Don’t tell on me, jackass!” Tim shouted, the bread roll smacking into his temple. He stared hard down at his plate, his face getting red.

“Tim, come on,” Bruce said, in a low voice. “Why’d you jump out of a tree?”

Tim shook his head, folding his arms. Bruce reached out and tipped his son’s chin up. Jason rolled his eyes; Dick flicked a kernel of corn at him, frowning.

“What is it?” Bruce asked. Tim shrugged again, keeping his eyes down.

“I wanted to do stuff like you,” Tim said, softly. He reached into his pocket and fished around, unearthing a quarter, a little crumpled note, and a tooth. He handed the tooth to Bruce. “Sorry.”

Bruce took the little tooth, holding it up to inspect. “Well,” he said, “if you’re really not that hurt, just don’t do it again. You want to work out like I do?”

Tim glanced at Dick, then back to Bruce. “Can I?”

“Well, not exactly,” Bruce said. “But, something like it. We can get you started on something.”

“Uhh…” Dick said. Bruce glared at him. “Is that-”

“One parent in this house, Dick,” Bruce said. Dick raised his hands in surrender, returning his attention to his dinner.

“Yeah, Dick, let him kill Tim in his own time,” Jason said. Bruce glared at him.

“Knock it off, Jay,” Bruce said. Jason frowned down at his plate. “Dick, if you still want to look at the syllabus so far, my notes are in my bag. Tim, don’t jump out of trees, but remember to put your tooth under your pillow tonight.”

“You’re still doing that?” Jason asked. Dick smacked the back of his head as he passed him. “Watch it, dickhead.”

“You watch it, asshole,” Dick said. Bruce stood up.

“Both of you, knock it off,” Bruce said. “Remember what we talked about. We’re trying to do better for Tim.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dick said, continuing to Bruce’s bag. Jason rolled his eyes again and started staring at his plate again.

“Everyone finish their homework?” Bruce asked. Jason didn’t respond, but Dick and Tim both nodded.

“I just need help with one worksheet,” Tim told him. Bruce reached out and cuffed his son’s chin. He tried his best, at least.

When he showed up back at his office on Thursday, Clark was standing there again, with a coffee in each hand. He let Bruce pass him and let them in before setting both coffees on the desk and starting to unpack again. Bruce took a sip of his coffee - still black - and reached into his desk drawer, digging around before he unearthed one sugar packet, which he emptied into his cup while Clark wasn’t looking.

That day passed much the same as the past day, with the two of them lobbing conversation and discourse back and forth, arguing about this or that, finally figuring out how they wanted to phrase their objective, and going way over their self-appointed end time. Clark nearly jumped when he looked at the time.

“Oh, geez, I’m gonna be late for dinner,” Clark said, starting to pack his papers and computer up. Bruce was busy chugging the last of his coffee again.

“Got a wife at home?” Bruce asked, tossing his cup in the recycle bin and starting to close down his computers. Clark shook his head, shouldering his bag.

“Nah, I live alone,” Clark said. “Dinner’s with my ma.” He offered a wave. “See you next week, Wayne.”

Bruce tossed up a wave in return, and Clark was gone. Bruce turned to look out his window over the parking lot, and saw him slide into an ancient-looking yellow convertible before peeling out of the lot. Bruce leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed.

“The feeling you’re describing,” Alfred said, when Bruce was explaining the situation to him over drinks that night, “is ‘respect,’ Master Wayne.”

“Is it?” Bruce asked, finishing off his bourbon. He set his glass down and rubbed his hands over his face. “I didn’t know Clark was so smart.”

“Ahh,” Alfred said. “Is he ‘Clark’ now?”

“He’s always insisting I call him that,” Bruce told him, defensive without even really knowing why. “It is his  _ name.” _

“Far be it from me to forbid you,” Alfred said, smiling, as he sipped from his own tumbler. “That feeling could even become ‘friendship,’ if you let it.”

“He’s my co-worker,” Bruce said, for the thousandth time. “Not a friend.”

“Not yet,” Alfred countered. Bruce rolled his eyes. “That’s where Jason gets it, you know.”

“I know,” Bruce said. “I just haven’t figured out how to stop it.”

“Children are your mirrors,” Alfred said. Bruce dropped his face into his hands.

“Any more proverbs tonight, wise one?” Bruce asked, his voice muffled by his palms. Alfred considered the question.

“Nothing is impossible for a willing heart,” Alfred offered. Bruce stood.

“I’ve drank too much for this,” Bruce said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Master Wayne, and good luck,” Alfred said. Bruce offered him a salute over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

The next Tuesday, Clark was waiting there again, a coffee in each hand, as Bruce unlocked the door to his office. Bruce took his coffee from Clark’s hand, taking a small sip- then stopping.

“Did you put sugar in this?” Bruce asked. Clark smiled at him.

“I know you want a packet of sugar,” Clark said. “I saw you. Just tell me next time, Bruce.”

Bruce hesitated, then said, “Okay. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Clark replied, unpacking his belongings.

“Why don’t we meet at your office?” Bruce asked. Clark stopped in his unpacking, glancing up at Bruce with a small frown.

“My office is a little small,” Clark said. “And you have your whole,” he waved at Bruce’s many desktops, “set-up in here.”

“We can try it on Thursday,” Bruce said. “If you’d like. I don’t want you to feel as though I’m… monopolizing our space.”

“Sure,” Clark said. “But I’m warning you now, it’s small.”

Bruce waved him off. “It can’t be that small. I’ll bring the coffees.”

Clark smiled a little. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Bruce said.

Now, looking at Clark’s tiny office on Thursday afternoon, Bruce was less sure. Clark was already inside, sitting at his desk, jammed into the corner of the little room. He stood and took his coffee when Bruce entered.

“It’s…” Bruce began. Clark smiled around the rim of his cup.

“Small,” Clark offered. “Very small.”

“What did you  _ do  _ to J’onn and Diana to get this office?” Bruce asked. Clark shrugged with one shoulder, looking the room over. Bruce took the brief moment to look Clark over. He seemed a little more comfortable in his own space, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair already a little mussed, his shoulders relaxed. He forced himself to look up at Clark’s face when he turned back around.

“It was the only office available when I got hired,” Clark told him. “I guess I just got attached to it.”

“Well, get unattached,” Bruce said, and Clark laughed.

“It’s hard,” Clark said, motioning for Bruce to take a seat. About halfway through their discussion of the day - what should be their first source, and really, it shouldn’t be  _ this  _ heated of a discussion, but Bruce sort of enjoyed the debate - Bruce thumped his head on the ceiling for the thousandth time and just shut his eyes, gathering himself.

“Sorry,” Clark said. “Like I said, it’s very-”

“-small, yes, we went over that,” Bruce said. He glanced around the space. “Well. Maybe we don’t always need to meet in an office.”

“Where do you want to meet?” Clark asked, leaning back in his chair. Bruce looked out the window for want of a different place to rest his eyes.

“We can still meet in my office on Tuesdays,” Bruce said. “Yours on Thursdays, if you want.”

“Hate to break it to you, Wayne, but those are both offices,” Clark said. Bruce glared at him.

“I meant,” Bruce said, “that we can maybe meet on another day, as well.”

“Like, Wednesdays?” Clark asked.

“That is a day of the week.”

“Smartass,” Clark murmured. Bruce sat back down in his chair. “I’d be fine with that.”

“I’m free Wednesdays,” Bruce said. “Same time?”

“Sounds good,” Clark said. “We can meet at that coffee joint down the place.”

“Alright,” Bruce agreed. “If we’re going to be moving this slowly, we need the extra day.”

_ “Glacially  _ slow,” Clark agreed. He organized his notes together and skimmed them. “Oh, right, I was calling you stupid. Why do you want this article? It’s ridiculous.”

Back into the argument, into the heat and the thick of it, and Bruce was in his  _ element,  _ challenged in a way he largely had not been in years. He relished the time he spent with Clark, and found himself somewhat disappointed when their time wrapped up which, again, was very new to him. Clark shook his hand again.

“Always a pleasure, Wayne,” he said, and Bruce hesitated before replying,

“Bruce.” He looked up at Clark. “Bruce is fine.”

Clark smiled, squeezing his hand. “Bruce it is.”

Bruce left him there, heading home again for the day. He told the boys he’d be meeting up with Clark on Wednesdays now, too.

“Oh, cool, we’re getting a new step-dad,” Dick commented, smiling around his mashed potatoes. Bruce smacked him on the back of the head.

“He’s my  _ co-worker,”  _ Bruce said, probably for the millionth time. “Co-workers-”

“Aren’t my friends,” Dick and Tim finished, at the same time.

“We know,” Dick added. Bruce glared at them both.

“Did I hear ‘Clark’ and ‘friend’ in the same breath?” Alfred asked, rounding the corner. “Shall I pop the champagne?”

Bruce glared at him and turned his attention back to his meal. He met up with Clark again on Tuesday, then on Wednesday at the coffee joint Clark had suggested.

“This place isn’t bad,” Bruce said, when they were halfway through their heated argument about their second source.

“Did you only just realize we were here?” Clark joked, leaning back in his armchair. He looked in his element, in a light sweater in deference to the windy summer day, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his glasses perched on the end of his nose from reading. He sipped at his coffee. Bruce looked out the window forcefully. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Bruce said, looking back down at their papers. He glanced up at Clark. “Just that you’re a moron.”

“Oh, look, Bruce, it’s on,” Clark laughed, picking up one of his sheafs of paper and starting to sort through it. “You jackass.”

Bruce glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Is that work talk?”

“Are we at work?” Clark shot back, in the same tone. Bruce tried not to smile and failed, miserably. “Wow. Nice smile, Bruce. Shame it took six weeks of winter to get it.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Bruce replied. Clark grinned like Christmas had come early, before he started laying into Bruce again about his choice of sources and why they should use another one of his goddamn journalism texts over one of Bruce’s law texts.

They continued that way for several more weeks: meeting up every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, fighting over what to put on the syllabus for hours, getting just heated enough that Bruce started to feel the thrill of an academic challenge again, then parting ways, just to do it all over again the next time.

“That feeling,” Alfred said, three bourbons deep, “is definitely ‘friendship.’”

“My co-workers aren’t my friends,” Bruce said, for the billionth time.

“This friend,” Alfred said, “just happens to be your co-worker, now, I think. Master Wayne, if I were you, I wouldn’t look  _ any  _ friend in the mouth. I’m just saying.”

“Oh, you’re just saying,” Bruce grumbled into his tumbler, before tossing back its contents. “Of course you’re ‘just saying.’”

“Just saying,” Alfred repeated. Bruce glared at him.

The next Tuesday, of course, proved to be a test of their friendship, as they arrived at their shared office building to find it tented for fumigation. They stood in the parking lot together, side-by-side, staring at it, before Clark exhaled.

“Well,” he said. “To the coffee place.”

They both got in their cars and drove to the coffee place, which was-

“Closed,” Bruce read aloud off the sign out front.

“Of course,” Clark said. He leaned against the hood of his car, glancing back at Bruce. “Want to cancel today?”

Bruce felt such an instinctual  _ no  _ enter his brain that he said, “Of course not,” before he could think better of it. Clark straightened up.

“Oh,” he said. Bruce wanted to kill everyone on the block, and then himself. “Alright.”

“But we can’t go back to my place,” Bruce added, lamely. They were deep in the throes of summer vacation, and the boys were all at home on that particular day. He cursed them, school, vacations, and just the general atmosphere of the situation.

“Well, we can go back to mine,” Clark said, “if you don’t mind that the air conditioning’s been on the fritz lately.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Clark replied, sliding across his hood to hop back into the driver’s seat of his convertible. “Just follow me.”

Follow him Bruce did, to an apartment building in the same neighborhood, where Clark directed him on where to park and brought him upstairs. True to Clark’s word, the air conditioning was down, leading to Clark apologizing and getting him a glass of ice water before they set to work.

The heat itself wasn’t the problem, Bruce considered, as they got deeper into the afternoon. The real problem was that Clark was, apparently, very comfortable in his own home, even when Bruce was in it, and stripped off his button-down so he was just sitting in a white t-shirt, one that clung quite tightly to his body, and Bruce found himself considerably more distracted than any other day.

“You alright today, Bruce?” Clark asked, when they were cleaning up after realizing it was nearly seven. “You seemed a little off.”

“No,” Bruce answered, then failed to elaborate. Clark seemed confused, but wisely chose not to poke at it. Bruce took one last long stare at him while Clark wasn’t looking, then left, drowning in a sea of completely baffling emotions.

“This,” Alfred said sagely, five bourbons deep, “is called ‘lust,’ Master Wayne.”

“I know what ‘lust’ is, Alfred,” Bruce snapped, six of his own tumblers in. “He’s just very attractive.”

“And smart, and funny, and charismatic, and-”

“Shut up, Alfred,” Bruce grumbled into his tumbler. The next day, though, he asked the boys if it would be alright if Clark came by.

“Our office building is being fumigated,” he explained, “and we went to Clark’s apartment yesterday, but his air conditioning isn’t working.”

“Fine by me, I’m going to be out anyways,” Jason said, before scarfing down his eggs. Dick and Tim both gave their okays, as well, before Bruce emailed Clark and informed him of his idea. Clark sent back an email with two thumbs-ups and six smiling face emojis, then arrived at Wayne Manor at twelve-thirty on the dot.

“Brought you iced coffee,” Clark said, passing off the cup as he jogged up Bruce’s front steps. He whistled as Bruce let him in. “Diana told me you lived in a big place, but this is a mansion. I thought these places only existed in  _ Dracula.” _

“I inherited mine from him,” Bruce said, dry as ever. Clark clapped him on the back and let Bruce lead him to the study, where they worked, uninterrupted, for several hours. However, by the time five o’clock rolled around, a tentative knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Bruce said, leaning back from the heated argument he and Clark had been in the middle of. Clark’s face was all flushed red; it was a good look on him.

Tim ducked his head in, peeking around the corner at Clark. “Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, no problem at all,” Clark assured him. Tim crept in, smiling a little at Clark.

“It’s just, uhh,” Tim said, before glancing down at his hand. “Professor Kent, do you want to stay for dinner? Alfred and I made it together.”

Clark glanced at Bruce, who felt frozen in time, before turning back to Tim with a smile. “It’d be a pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Tim looked back at Bruce with big eyes. Bruce just glared back at him.

“Why don’t I go see what’s for dinner?” Bruce said. “Clark, feel free to start gathering your things so you’ll be ready for dinner.”

“Uhh,” Clark said. “Okay.”

Bruce left Clark in there, shutting the door behind him as he picked up Tim’s wrist and looked at his palm to find Dick’s handwriting.

“What are you two doing?” Bruce demanded, in a low, hushed voice.

“Dick said you spend so much time with him that we should meet him,” Tim said. “And I thought so, too. If he’s going to be your friend, I want to make sure he’s nice first.”

In the face of Tim’s honest, innocent determination to make sure Bruce had the right kind of friends, Bruce could only sigh and put a hand on his head.

“Don’t let Dick talk you into too many of these ideas,” Bruce said. “You’re the smarter one of you two.”

“I’m gonna tell him you said that,” Tim said, before sprinting off. Bruce sighed again and opened the study door.

“I’m packed for dinner,” Clark told him, hefting his messenger bag. “Are we going on an expedition? Do we have to hunt our own food?”

“You’re a jackass,” Bruce commented. Clark just laughed and let himself be led to the dining room, where he was presented with the seat opposite Bruce’s, at the other head of the table. Alfred and Tim laid out the plates for everyone, Tim with a proud smile as he did so, and Clark thanked him graciously, accepting the glass of water handed to him and the loaded plate of food placed in front of him.

Jason even returned home in time to eat, introducing himself haphazardly to Clark right after Dick had, shaking his hand and falling silent as he took his seat.

“So,” Clark said, looking over the room. “It’s a pleasure to be invited to dinner. I always wanted to meet the boys Bruce talked so much about.”

“You talk about us?” Tim asked, delighted. Bruce put a big hand over his face; Tim swatted at him, disgruntled.

“I don’t even know them,” Bruce said to Clark, who just laughed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You  _ love  _ us,” Tim teased. Dick laughed.

“We’re his sons,” Dick reminded him.

“Doesn’t mean we have to love each other,” Jason spat in the direction of his food. Clark glanced at him, then back at Bruce.

“He’s fourteen,” Bruce said softly. Clark nodded.

“Ahh,” he said, like it explained everything, which it sort of did. Tim beamed at him.

“I’m glad you’re glad to meet us,” Tim said. Clark laughed again.

“I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad,” Clark replied, and Tim looked ready to burst with excitement as he turned back to Bruce.

“I like him,” Tim said, in a whisper not quite low enough to count as private, but Clark had the good grace to engage himself in a conversation with Dick about what colleges Dick was looking to apply for and in what majors.

“I’m glad,” Bruce whispered back.

“He can be your friend if you want,” Tim said. “I officially approve.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bruce replied.

“He can even be our step-dad,” Tim continued, and Bruce heard Clark choke on whatever he had been chewing. He refused to look up at him as Tim kept gushing on and on.

By the time Clark had had dinner, dessert, and coffee, turning down bourbon on the insistence that he would stay for drinks sometime, but didn’t want to drink and drive, it was later in the night than they’d ever gone before. Bruce saw Clark to the door, the two of them ignoring Tim peering around the corner, Jason and Dick at his back, pretending they weren’t interested.

“You’ve got quite the kids there,” Clark said. “Sorry if it’s a lot to ask, but, ahh-”

“No,” Bruce said, saving him the trouble. “No other parent.”

“Ahh,” Clark said, smiling at him. “Well. Hopefully it wasn’t tragic.”

Bruce let out one startled laugh, and Clark just grinned.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark,” Bruce said. Clark grasped his hand again, shaking firmly.

“See you tomorrow, Bruce,” Clark replied. He offered him a wave as he jogged down the stairs to his car, sliding in and pulling away, all while Bruce watched. Once Clark was out of sight, Bruce turned back around to find the three boys and Alfred all looking at him.

“Alright,” Bruce said, rolling up his sleeves. “Who was it that said ‘he can be our step-dad’ in Clark’s earshot?”

Tim screeched and took off at a run, fleeing Bruce on his heels.

The next - and last - month of summer went about the same way. They still met in the offices on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and in the coffee house on Wednesdays, which were the days they got the most work done. Clark now came over on Mondays and Fridays, too, to the Manor, to help the boys with their project of building a treehouse and to stay for dinner. The weekends now felt strangely empty, without Clark to fill them, so Bruce found himself working harder on his syllabi and with the boys and tried not to think about  _ why  _ the time felt so empty.

By the time the end of summer rolled around, and classes were due to start, Clark and Bruce finally got their syllabus to a reasonable point they could agree on. Only three days after was the first day of classes, and Bruce got to see Clark teach, which was- incredible, really. He made Bruce feel like he should’ve chosen a different career path, because clearly  _ this  _ was what a professor was  _ supposed  _ to look like.

Clark spoke eloquently, with enthusiasm, with passion, moving around, motioning with his hands, teaching with his whole self. He knew the syllabus inside and out, and answered questions no matter how trivial, and seemed to beam with pride by the time class was over.

“You did so well, Bruce,” Clark said, falling down into one of the chairs at the head of the classroom. “Really. Amazing. You know your shit. You’re a great professor.”

“You, too,” Bruce said, even though he had a thousand more words in his head. Jimmy Olsen, Clark’s TA, and Stephanie Brown, Bruce’s TA, were already packing up their belongings, seemingly excited about the course.

“I think it’s going to go really well!” Jimmy gushed, and Stephanie nodded.

“I feel really good about it, Professor Wayne,” Stephanie said. She turned to Clark, beaming. “Thanks so much, Professor Kent.”

“Yeah, of course,” Clark said, looking over her head at Bruce, who just shrugged. By the time the two of them left, and Clark and Bruce were left alone, Bruce smiled, just a little.

“What’re you smiling about?” Clark asked. “You never smile, so this better be good.”

“Just looking forward to the semester,” Bruce lied. Clark glanced up at him, then smiled himself.

“Yeah,” Clark said. “Me, too.”

Their schedule had to change by necessity, due to the shift in time requirements from the fall semester starting. Clark apparently traveled a lot to visit his mother, who lived alone in Kansas, and wasn’t around on weekends, but he started showing up nearly every night at Wayne Manor for dinner, much to the delight of Tim and Dick - and even, occasionally, Jason, who found in Clark someone willing to use their full strength in wrestling him, and someone who left him alone when he was busy being surly and mad at life.

“Hey,” Clark asked, on one of the nights where he agreed to drink with Bruce and take a taxi home. “Is it… weird, that I still come over for dinner?”

“No?” Bruce said. “No. It’s not weird.”

“Even though we’re not working on the syllabus anymore?” Clark asked. Bruce shook his head.

“No, we’re, uhh.” Bruce stopped. Looked at Clark.

“Friends?” Clark asked. Bruce had a mini-flashback to every time he had ever said,  _ My co-workers are not my friends.  _ It took a while.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Yes. Friends. So, it’s not strange when friends come over for dinner.”

“Every night?” Clark asked, getting up to pour himself and Bruce new glasses each.

“Not  _ every  _ night,” Bruce disagreed. “You live in Kansas on the weekends. Shared custody.”

Clark snorted on a laugh as he sat down next to Bruce on the couch and handed over his new tumbler. “I suppose.”

“I’m right,” Bruce said. He drank from his glass, slowly. He turned to Clark. “Hey, Clark.”

“Yeah, Bruce?” Clark asked, turning his head to look at him. He blinked, apparently surprised to find Bruce so close.

“I don’t really have any friends,” Bruce said. “So. I don’t want to lose this one.”

Clark stared at him for a long, tense moment, before apparently gleaning Bruce’s meaning. “Ahh,” he said. He drained his tumbler and set it on a coaster on the coffee table, and Bruce did the same, following his lead. “You wouldn’t lose a friend, Bruce.”

“No?” Bruce asked. Clark shook his head.

“No,” Clark said. “It’s more like… gaining one, I suppose.”

“Is it?” Bruce asked. He felt somewhat stupid, and nearly didn’t care.

“It is,” Clark assured him. He leaned in, then hesitantly reached up, letting his fingers touch the space under Bruce’s left eye. He cupped his jaw in his broad hand, his fingers stretching into his hair. Bruce stared back at him, unwilling to move and break the fragile moment. Clark leaned in, slowly, giving Bruce plenty of time to move away, but Bruce remained still, waiting for Clark to make contact.

Make contact Clark did, and in abundance, pressing their lips together once, finally making Bruce react. Bruce reacted by threading his own fingers up into Clark’s thick black hair, relishing in the feeling of it after so long imagining it, at the amazing feel of Clark’s lips on his, at the sensations that flashed through him when Clark swung one leg across Bruce’s and settled on his lap, licking into his mouth. Big as Clark was, Bruce couldn’t even feel his weight, so lost in a haze as he was, of emotion and sensation and everything that came with them.

Clark’s hands were at Bruce’s shirt buttons before they could catch their breath, and Bruce pulled back a little bit, to look up into Clark’s eyes. Bright blue flashed up at him, and Bruce exhaled shakily.

“Is this okay?” Clark asked, fingers over Bruce’s top button. Bruce hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes, yes, it’s okay,” Bruce told him, and Clark dove in, kissing him again, undoing his shirt buttons with a startling speed for someone his size. He had Bruce’s shirt off in seconds, tugging the sleeves off and tossing it aside. Bruce reached up to do the same for Clark, and ended up catching his wrists in the sleeves, forgetting to undo his cuffs. He tugged at the sleeves, only serving in getting Clark’s arms stuck behind his back.

“No,” Clark said, when Bruce stood to untangle him. “You can leave it.”

Bruce eyed Clark, then smiled, just slightly, before leaning down to kiss him again. He got to his knees in front of him, unbuttoning his pants and unfastening his belt to reach in and pull Clark free, all the glorious weight and length of him.

Things progressed rather quickly, with Clark eventually ripping free of the confines of his shirt in his need to bury his hands in Bruce’s hair and hold his head, the sheer strength and image of which did wonders for Bruce’s own state of being. Once Clark was finished off, Bruce dragged him back over to the sofa, prepped him carefully, and fucked him until Clark was holding his shoulders, clenching his teeth together to keep from being too loud and attracting any attention. They fell asleep there, two too-big men tangled up on the too-small sofa, and Bruce thought, hazily, through the sex and alcohol and Clark’s warmth that it was the best decision he’d ever made.

The next morning, when he found a note from Clark that explained he had a morning class he didn’t want to miss, and no Clark to be seen, he dragged himself into the kitchen, still dressed from the day before, and said flatly to Alfred, “That was possibly the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“Go on,” Alfred said, as he poured him coffee and dug around in the fridge for bacon strips. Bruce explained his previous day and night, leaving out the less savory details of it all, while Alfred hummed and nodded his head in all the right places.

“Do you see what I mean?” Bruce asked, at the end. Alfred nodded.

“Yes, Master Wayne,” Alfred replied. “I’m afraid that emotion you’re feeling now is commonly referred to as ‘love.’”

“Fuck no,” Bruce growled. Alfred glanced at him.

“That’s a very typical response,” Alfred informed him. Bruce dropped his head into his arms.

“Bullshit,” Bruce said. Alfred pat him on the head as he passed.

“I’d advise you to talk to Master Kent as quickly as possible,” Alfred said. “Get all this out of your system, and possibly move on to a healthy relationship.”

If Alfred knew Bruce  _ at all,  _ then he knew there was no way that was happening. Bruce and Clark had their class session together that afternoon, and Bruce didn’t even look at him the whole time, ignoring him as completely as he could. Even the students seemed to notice the cold shoulder, glancing at one another when it was apparent Bruce was being a jackass for seemingly no reason. By the time class wrapped up, Stephanie and Jimmy lingered behind, ostensibly to talk about the syllabus, or say something about the class, but one look from Bruce had them clearing out.

“Bruce,” Clark said, as the door shut, “if this is about last night, or this morning-”

“It’s not,” Bruce said, packing his bag with his back to Clark.

“But if it was, I just-”

“It’s not,” Bruce repeated, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He left the room without a backward glance, disregarding the pangs in his chest that usually meant something he was feeling was too stupid to be ignored. He stormed past Clark’s dumb yellow car in the parking lot, resisted the childish urge to kick one of his tires, and slid into his own car. He stared at the steering wheel for a long time before finally turning the car on and peeling out of the lot.

Dinner was a relatively silent affair, as the three boys kept glancing at each other nervously and Bruce stared down at his plate, barely eating.

“Uhm?” Tim eventually ventured, apparently elected as the best option to ask. “Where’s Clark?”

“He’s not coming,” Bruce bit off, shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth. He could feel eight eyes burning into his head.

“Is he coming back tomorrow?” Tim asked.

Bruce shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

Tim inhaled, just under his breath, a little sharply. “Is he mad at us?”

Bruce glanced up at him. “Why would he be mad at  _ you?” _

“I don’t know,” Tim said, seeming visibly upset. He glanced back at Dick. “Why isn’t he coming back?”

“He did something stupid,” Bruce told him. Tim frowned.

“What did he do?” Tim asked. Bruce snapped his jaw shut.

“It’s none of your business,” Bruce said.

“Hey, don’t take it out on the kid if you’re fighting with your boyfriend,” Dick argued. “It’s not his fault.”

“Watch your mouth, Dick,” Bruce warned.

“He’s got a point,” Jason said, around a mouthful of food. “Not Tim’s fault if you’re pissed. He just asked a question.”

“How about no more questions?” Bruce growled. Tim looked down at his food, his face red. Dick leaned over and whispered something to him softly; Bruce pretended not to see them, focused solely on his plate. He apologized to Tim that night, ducking into his room when he saw the light still on, and Tim just nodded before turning around and shutting his eyes. Bruce shut his light off as he left, to lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling for a couple hours.

By the time their next class session rolled around, Bruce showed up to find Clark sitting in an almost-empty classroom, the only two students in it being Stephanie and Jimmy.

“Is nobody else here?” Bruce asked, dropping his bag on the front table. Stephanie stood, straightening her skirt.

“Nope,” she said. “Jimmy and I emailed everyone and cancelled class.”

“What the fuck?” Bruce asked, as Clark sat up straight, brow furrowed.

“Work this out,” Jimmy instructed, motioning between Clark and Bruce. Clark’s frown deepened. Bruce forced himself to look away. “You’re making class weird, and now everybody’s scared of you again. Figure it out.”

“When you do,” Stephanie said, holding up a key on a little key ring around her finger, “text us and we’ll let you out.”

“Stephanie Brown, don’t you  _ dare  _ do this,” Bruce said, but Jimmy and Stephanie were already out the door, locking it behind them, effectively trapping Bruce and Clark in the lecture hall with no way out. Bruce glared at Clark. “What did you say to them?”

“I didn’t need to say anything to them,” Clark said. “I think they just felt the same way everyone felt after last class.”

“Which was?” Bruce asked. Clark raised his hands and let them drop against his thighs, incredulous.

“Confused?” Clark said. “Uncomfortable? Scared? Take your pick. You were a jackass last class.”

“Well,  _ you  _ were a jackass that morning, so,” Bruce said, before realizing he sounded like a teenager. “Not that that had any-”

“Save it, Bruce,” Clark interrupted. “What’s your problem? Get it out so we can fix it and move on. Are you having a crisis? Did you not like it? I’m not going to make you do it again.”

“I liked it fine,” Bruce snapped. “Maybe what I  _ didn’t  _ like was you leaving the next day.”

“Some of us have jobs, Bruce,” Clark reminded him. “I have eight o’clock classes this semester that I have to be at.”

“Well,” Bruce said, glaring at him. He felt stubborn; he certainly knew he was  _ acting  _ stubborn. He just couldn’t unearth where the strange hurt was coming from. Maybe it was for the best he never became a detective himself.

“What is it?” Clark asked. “Is it me? Tell me if it is. I’ll be perfectly professional. Won’t bother you anymore. Just have to act like an adult and tell me.”

Bruce glared at him.

“Oh, back to the silent treatment?” Clark continued. “Thought we were past that, to be honest.” He glanced at Bruce. Bruce remained silent. “Guess not. Look, Bruce, I always thought  _ I  _ was gonna be the one to fuck this up. I’m genuinely surprised it’s you. Of all the fool-headed, dumb, immature-”

“What?” Bruce said, when Clark’s words sank in. “Fuck what up?”

“This,” Clark said, motioning violently between the two of them.”

“What is  _ this?”  _ Bruce asked. Clark shrugged.

“Damned if I know,” Clark said. Bruce frowned at him. “Oh, that’s the Bruce I know. Glad to have you back. What’re you pissed about now?”

“I’m not  _ pissed,”  _ Bruce snapped.

“Oh, sure you’re not,” Clark said. “You’re mad. What’re you mad about? Something I said? Something I did? Is it-”

“Oh, for the love of God, shut  _ up,”  _ Bruce growled. “I’m not  _ mad,  _ I’m just-”

“Just what?” Clark needled. Bruce threw his hands up.

“I just really like you and I didn’t mean to-” Bruce started, before dropping his hands over his face. “I just didn’t meant to do anything. About that.”

“About liking me?” Clark asked, his voice a little gentler. Bruce let his hands fall, and Clark was a lot closer than he was anticipating, his expression gone soft. “Why didn’t you…  _ Bruce.” _

“What?” Bruce demanded. “What could you  _ possibly-” _

“I really like you, too, Bruce,” Clark said, stepping up into Bruce’s space. “That’s not a problem. At all. That is not even kind of a problem.”

Bruce glared at him. “But you-”

“Whatever you’re about to say,” Clark said, “try thinking it over, and decide if it’s worth it.”

Bruce did, and then shut his mouth. Clark nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Thought so.” He leaned in slightly, then stopped again. “May I?”

Bruce paused, then nodded, and Clark kissed him again, all that explosive passion and emotional frenzy erupting out of his body in a flurry of hands, lips, teeth, whispered words and moaned sounds, clothes coming off and suddenly Bruce was on the front table, bare-ass naked, with Clark prepping him and staring into his face the whole time, like he couldn’t look away.

“I honestly think I could love you,” Clark said, before he pressed inside, and the memory of that was forever burnt into Bruce’s brain, come hell or high water.

Stephanie and Jimmy eventually came back and released them, once Bruce texted Stephanie to let them out, after the two of them had cleaned up and gotten dressed again, to the best of their ability. Clark followed Bruce home in that shitty yellow car of his, parking right beside Bruce in the driveway and following him inside for dinner.

“Oh, thank  _ God,”  _ Dick said emphatically. He turned around. “Hey, Clark’s back!”

“Yes!” Tim screamed, from somewhere deeper in the house. Jason rounded the corner.

“You better fix this,” Jason said, pointing at Clark with his pen.

“Can do,” Clark said, just as Tim hurtled down the hallway and launched himself at Clark, nearly knocking him down with the sheer weight of his joy.

“Good to see you, too, Tim,” Clark said, catching him in his arms and returning the hug. He looked up at Bruce, with his arms full of Bruce’s youngest son, and Bruce just stared at him for a second, Clark’s earlier words ringing in his head.

_ I honestly think I could love you,  _ he recalled, and with Clark smiling at him like that, those blue eyes clarified by his glasses, all big and strong angles and sunlight and grins and brains and brawn and all that, surrounded by his pleased sons, Bruce almost felt normal.

“That,” Alfred explained late in the night, as Clark lay asleep on the sofa, face pressed into the pillows, snoring lightly, “is called ‘satisfaction’.”

“Is it?” Bruce asked. Alfred nodded.

“Also called ‘happiness,’” Alfred told him. Bruce considered this for a moment. He took a sip of his bourbon.

“I don’t hate it,” Bruce said, reaching to pour himself another drink, glancing back at Clark. “No. I don’t think I mind it at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a blog now to request imagines - I just like to make people happy. Submit requests [here!](https://imagine-in-the-fandoms.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> I also actually wrote a book. It was a long road but, I did it! Ta-da! It's about two young ladies who hunt aliens and fall in love. If you want to read it, shoot me a message!
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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